From the Ashes
by UMPhoenix
Summary: In a shattered galaxy, a new legend must rise to restore peace and hope.
1. Chapter 1

"Shield status," Captain Charel demands, his fists still clenching the armrests of his chair for support after the particularly violent rocking of the ship.

Without so much as looking up from his tactical display, Lt. Commander Hawk reports, "Holding at 32." While he speaks, an enemy ship finally crosses into the port phaser arc, exactly what he'd been waiting for. At his command, the just recharged phaser bank empties its payload, scorching a hole in the attacking bioship. "Direct hit to enemy vessel. Forward weapon systems disabled," his voice booms out over the alert klaxon.

"Helm, alter course 12 degrees to starboard. Don't let them flank us," the captain orders, checking the sensor map displayed on the console of his chair. The viewscreen only allows him to see one area of the battle, but his console provides a general map showing the movements of all ships in the area in relation to his own.

"Aye, sir," Ensign D'drel acknowledges calmly, dancing her nimble fingers over the display to execute her captain's orders. Once the command is executed, she takes advantage of the second between orders to brush a displaced strand of hair back behind the point of her right ear. Though others may not share an appreciation for her particular heritage, the traditional Romulan hair styling lends itself much more easily to repair than most others.

Blinking her eyes open, Counselor Vanarrah recenters her mind on the current situation. The movement draws the captain's eyes to her, seated at his left. His expectant gaze asks the question his lips hesitate to voice, already fairly certain of the answer. Still, she speaks aloud her report for the sake of clarity. "I can't influence them, captain," her soft melody sings out, making the bad news have a slightly duller edge.

"Keep trying, counselor," he orders, turning his focus back to the viewscreen just in time to watch a bioship sail past as a phaser blast chases after it. "What's the status of the _Malinche_?"

Ducking somewhat off to his right to escape the smoke coming from a ruptured panel on the wall to his left, Lt. Derbin reports from the ops console, "Their shields are down, multiple hull breaches. I'm reading fluctuations in their primary power net."

Clenching his dark fist over his mouth, he manages to cover a cough aroused by the increasing smoke assailing his nostrils. Most of the other bridge officers aren't affected so easily by such common place discomforts, but they've also spent more time at their posts. Up until last month, he hadn't even sat at the console during an actual battle. War necessitates adaptation.

"Ensign, new heading," the captain orders, expanding his personal map to include the damaged friendly starship. "Take us right into their heart, full impulse. Commander, don't let those phasers idle."

The soft beeping of display panels as his crew jump to their work is all the acknowledgement he requires. Each member knows exactly what must be done, knows that if any one of them lags or hesitates the ship might not survive. Their vessel, the mighty warship USS _Phoenix,_ normally could easily smash four bioships without much hassle, but the beating just taken prior to the engagement and the constant dwindling of supplies has left it in less than optimal condition. Still, the sleek vessel charges into the midst of the enemy, maneuvering rapidly to dodge incoming weapons' fire at the same time that it unleashes a massive barrage of its own.

Desperately, the enemy ships try to evade the angered charge. Nearly matching the _Phoenix_'s maneuverability, two of the vessels break off heading dorsal while another moves to port. All three manage to evade the direct assault, but none fully escape the defender's charge as orange and red bursts of energy tear into their greenish hulls. Had they remained in the path of the torpedoes fired from the warship, none of them would have survived.

A final enemy ship remains on course towards the battered _Malinche_, preparing to make another sweep of the already burnt hull with its forward weapons. Without needing the captain's orders, Ensign D'drel keeps the ship directly on the enemy's tail, providing Lt. Cmdr. Hawk with a perfect shot at the attacker. Multiple bursts of orange pulse energy cross the gap between the hunting ship and its pursuer, pock-marking the slender hull of the bioship, but not destroying it.

"Plasma torpedoes, fire," Capt. Charel orders, watching intently as the forward enemy weapon begins to glow a yellowish-green, an unmistakable indication that it prepares to fire on the helpless _Malinche_.

"Firing," Hawk complies, booming his answer out through the bridge. Despite their respective stations, his voice tends to carry a more commanding force than that of the captain's. In times of conflict, the captain manages to retain a trace of compassion and humility, a style which makes his orders more comforting to the newer officers while also refraining from alienating the more experienced older officers.

From the under side of the vessel's saucer section, five bolts of neon green energy rocket forth in rapid succession, one after the other, on a direct course for the enemy ship. In less than a second, the first of the five impacts the dorsal fin of the enemy, blasting a chunk of the hull adrift into space. The remaining four follow suit, tearing right through the enemy craft's starboard neck strut. Under the command of Ensign D'drel, the _Phoenix_ breaks off its pursuit and pulls up hard as the bow of the enemy ship tears itself away from the body, causing an explosive fireball to consume the entire craft.

"Enemy vessel destroyed," Hawk reports.

"Does the _Malinche_ still have propulsion?"

"No, sir," Lt. Derbin answers.

Even with the protection of the _Phoenix,_ the chances of a crippled ship surviving the duration of a full-on conflict are minimal. Extending his own ship's already weakened shields around the much larger vessel wouldn't absorb more than a few enemy shots before leaving both vessels at the enemies' mercy. If the _Malinche_ is to survive, it will have to be removed from the battlefield by some means, but the bioships won't let either of the two combatants withdraw. He needs to find a way to get that ship to safety.

Hoping to hear good news, Capt. Charel orders, "Status of enemy ships."

"Lead enemy has lost shields," Derbin reports, refusing to allow another cough as he analyzes the information on his console, "port enemy at 32 shields and starboard at 12."

"Put us right on the lead ship's tail. Concentrate all fire on that target. I want it gone _now_," Charel orders, cautiously optimistic about a new plan taking shape.

Doing her best to match maneuvers, the ensign frowns slightly. "They're trying to evade," she reports unhappily, adjusting course again in an attempt to counter the enemy's erratic movements.

"Match their moves. Close to within 500 meters," the captain orders. "Standby to release EM screen."

Another rocking of the ship, stronger than the normal jostle of enemy weapons' fire, precedes an announcement from the helmswoman. "The other ships are dogging us, captain."

Carefully noting and somewhat dismissing this information amid further trembling prompted by enemy blasts, the captain responds, "Aft weapons only fire on the other two. Maintain pursuit and concentrate available fire on the target. Release EM screen on my mark. Ensign, prepare for a warp speed jump."

"Captain, the lead ship's hull is going critical," Lt. Cmdr. Hawk reports, anticipating the captain's plan. After following Charel into battle so many times, he's gained an understanding of how the captain's mind works. Filling in as first officer over the past year, working so closely beside his childhood friend, hasn't hurt their connection either.

"Release EM screen," comes the predicted order, quickly executed by the lieutenant at ops. "Lt. Keel, prepare to lock tractor beam on the _Malinche,_" he adds, addressing the officer stationed to the right of the command center of the beleaguered bridge.

"Understood," the man confirms, executing the necessary tasks to comply with the order.

Like a squid releasing ink, the _Phoenix_ discharges continual bursts of powerful electromagnetic interference from the rims of the saucer and the underside of the guards just above the hull-integrated engines as it closes on the enemy vessel. While the starship itself remains unaffected, the interference clouding around the _Phoenix_ and in its wake effectively hides the ship from the enemies' sensors. The enemy ships can still randomly fire into the expanding cloud, but only by the cloud's movement can they guess at the position of their target.

A few more direct hits from the weapons—formidable even in their depleted state—barraging the enemy bioship and numerous small fires begin bursting out into space from inside the hull. Both Derbin and the counselor share a slight smile of relief as they watch the enemy blow itself apart from inside, knowing that half of the attacking enemy force has been neutralized, but the captain can't permit himself to be distracted by a small moment of victory.

"Stop EM screen," the captain orders quickly. In rapid succession, he fires off the keys to his plan, knowing that his crew will process the orders meant for them without the need to waste time addressing each individual by name. "Full about. Warp burst directly at the _Malinche,_ don't even wait to clear the EM cloud. Reconfigure emitters to create a wormhole large enough for both ships. Prepare to deploy a Genesis Torpedo."

The last part of his order catches the crew by surprise, causing a momentary ripple of concern as they go about executing his commands. Only Vanarrah dares to make eye contact with the captain even as the view on the screen reflects the abrupt, 180 degree turn of the vessel.

"Inside a planetary system, captain?" she asks, softening her voice to prevent it seeming like a challenge to his authority. Even her direct gaze she softens, blinking her lashes to show that she does not wish to distract him with a battle of wills during conflict.

Her response had been anticipated, all of their responses, but he doesn't have time to debate the finer points of his plan. In hindsight, he might think of a better option he overlooks now, but that doesn't help in the moment. Addressing her comment, and the unspoken concern of the rest of the crew, he responds simply, "If those ships survive there may not be a planetary system left. Prepare a wormhole course to take us a safe distance from the blast."

In the moments it takes for the vessel to complete its turn and the jump to warp speed, not a member of the bridge crew utters another word. They've been in this situation before many times, awaiting the signal from their fairly young captain to execute a daring and risky maneuver most more seasoned officers would probably never conceive of, yet his bold strategies have time and again met with success. As so often before, timing will be crucial to the success of such a dangerous plan. Orders must come without any delay. A word or sound could mask a critical command, or distract someone at a key moment.

As the viewscreen fills with the blurring of space associated with the approach of warp speed, the captain orders, "Prepare to lock tractor beam."

The engines of the warship roar to life, catapulting the ship in less than a second back along its previous course to a position just above the battered _Malinche._ Neither of the two enemy ships yet registers what has happened, still firing near the head of the leftover EM cloud in hopes of hitting the predator lurking within. Just as the captain had planned.

Each member of the crew knows the plan now, beginning to execute their role before the ship has decelerated. Use the EM screen to confuse the enemy for a few seconds, prevent them from seeing the actual movements of the _Phoenix_ just long enough to grab the _Malinche,_ drop a Genesis Torpedo, and run like hell. A good plan, but a moment's hesitation will ensure either that they get caught in the blast as well or the bioships have enough warning to escape and come back in a few seconds to resume the attack.

"Tractor beam, now," Capt. Charel orders once the stars on the viewscreen have returned to tiny points of light instead of streaming lines.

"Tractor beam locked," Keel replies, making sure that the energy beam has been securely fastened to the destitute craft.

All the captain was waiting to hear. Speaking so quickly he nearly trips over his own words, he barks out, "Fire torpedo. Helm, get us out of here NOW."

Hawk acknowledges first as an expanding circle of interchanging blue and pinkish energy swirls forms on the viewscreen. "Torpedo away."

"Entering wormhole," D'drel announces as the ship moves forward, pulling its charge along with it, into the stable portion of white light in the center of the swirling energy clouds. For a brief moment, the vastness of space disappears, replaced by a mass of pale blue washing over the two ships. The battle, the angst of being under continual assault, washes away into the calming reassurance of the soft blue tunnel carrying the two weary ships to safety.

But just as abruptly as its peaceful reassurance came, the welcoming tunnel yields its contents back into the darkness of space. This time, however, the viewscreen offers a welcoming view of a Federation starbase.

Before allowing himself a sigh of relief, Capt. Charel calls out, "Status," giving his officers a chilling reminder that the battle ends only if the plan worked.

"Detonation confirmed," Lt. Cmdr. Hawk reports, predictably still as alert as when the ship were shaking from enemy weapons. "System sensors indicate that the bioships did not escape prior to explosion."

"If they did, we'll know in a second," Charel comments, sitting a bit too far forward in his chair. Turning to his left, he asks, "Do you sense anything?"

Glancing first to the viewscreen, then back to her expectant captain, Counselor Vanarrah reports cautiously, "No," with a gentle shake of her head.

"Sensors detect no enemy ships, no singularities," Lt. Derbin adds, checking his console for confirmation of the counselor's optimistic statement.

A hushed silence falls over the bridge crew, everyone waiting for a sign that their enemy somehow managed to survive. Given the interference generated by the massive detonation of a Genesis Torpedo, sensor readings will not be available for several minutes, long after the ships would resume their attack if they managed to survive. Confirmation of their enemies' destruction would ease the conscience of everyone refusing to breath on the bridge, but that is a luxury far too long in coming.

The silence breaks as an alert click comes from Lt. Keel's post, drawing all eyes to him. "Captain, reports coming in from various outposts. Neptune reports increasing gravimetric shearing coming from the detonation. They're requesting assistance."

Another blinking light catches his eye, drawing his attention away from the general broadcasts. "Captain, incoming hail from the starbase. Audio only."

"Put it through," Charel orders, easing some of the tension in his muscles as he settles himself against the back of his command chair.

Over the speakers of the bridge comes a crackling, semi-broken greeting, though whether the distortion is due to damage in the communications systems of the starbase or the _Phoenix_ isn't readily apparent. Most likely both. "What's your status, _Phoenix_?"

Taking the lead, Charel answers, "We have the _Malinche _in tow and are not picking up any additional enemy ships. Can you confirm?"

"Confirmed, _Phoenix,_" the distorted voice answers all too slowly.

At last, even the captain allows himself to exhale. In the back of the bridge, several officers indulge in the desire to raise a slight cheer, knowing that the long war they've fought has finally come to an end. Instantaneously, the pensive bridge becomes the center of merriment, ecstatic relief at the hard-won "victory" pouring forth; hardly something the captain would scold his crew for indulging in.

When the cheers die back down and everyone at last has a new breath in their lungs, Charel proceeds to communicate, "We've taken some heavy damage and our supplies are nearly exhausted. Request permission to dock for repairs and resupply."

"Permission granted. We'll see what we can scrounge up for you," the starbase replies.

"Thank you. _Phoenix_ out," Charel responds. Just prior to collapsing back into his chair for a much needed fresh breath himself, he adds, "Ensign, turn over helm control to the starbase main computer." Finished at last, he allows himself to lean his head back against the chair and close his eyes just for a moment. The relief flooding out from the rest of the crew, the knowledge that finally they can lay down their arms, gives him a smile as he notes the rise and fall of his own chest as the exhaustion begins to take over for the adrenaline. Perhaps Starfleet will allow him to sleep for a week or so before forcing him to give a debriefing, but in all likelihood he'll be lucky to convince them to wait an hour for his report.

"One more thing, _Phoenix,_" comes the unexpected crackle of the starbase, snapping the captain's head back up to attention.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Welcome home."


	2. Chapter 2

With the internal transport system down, the only way to the ship's airlock is through the battle-ravaged hallways still littered with debris from destroyed consoles and collapsed walls. Clean-up crews focused initially on rushing the bodies of injured and deceased comrades to Sickbay, only now beginning to work on salvaging the ship itself. So much damage, so many fused wires and burnt out hull sections scattered across the floor, and the _Phoenix_ was among the better conditioned ships left in the fleet.

Followed closely by Lt. Cmdr. Hawk and Counselor Vanarrah, Capt. Charel tries not to notice the pieces of his starship strewn about his feet while heading to meet the starbase's welcoming party. Somehow, without the looming threat of another attack, docked safely in orbit around one of the most brilliant jewels left in the galaxy, the deep wounds to his ship feel more real. Everything feels more real, more exhausting, than it did during the war, but a captain must remain strong for his crew. They look to him for strength, especially as they cry over their dead friends and family, and he must reassure them that the sacrifices were worth it. Sleep and exhaustion must wait until no one can see just how drained he truly is.

Just to his right, a startling sigh catches the captain's attention as the air catches in the counselor's elongated throat. Both men slow their pace for a second, but quickly realize the source of the counselor's surprise and continue on with her sprinting a few steps to resume the triangular formation. Neither of them would blame her for being disturbed, both privately sharing her public sign of distress. Knowing that your shipmates have been killed is difficult enough without having to find the blood from one of the bodies painted across the wall and carpet.

None of the three has said a word since leaving the bridge. Only three senior officers to meet with the admiral, and even they shouldn't stay long as they are sorely needed throughout the ship. So many friends, so many colleagues, all gone now. Their lives had been sacrificed to bring the survivors to this point, the point of victory.

Rounding the intersection in the corridor, the captain focuses on the fourth member of his party crouched down against a torn out display panel a few meters ahead. Sparks fly out from the exposed wires as the group draws closer, accompanied by a blast of Russian curses from the engineer trying to keep from being singed by the electrical shower prompted by his tinkering.

"Problems, commander?" the captain asks, announcing his arrival politely.

With more cursing in as many languages as he can think of, Lt. Cmdr. Sviatoslavov pulls himself out from the wall panel to join his crewmates. The nanofiber of his uniform managed to absorb the majority of the electrical shower, keeping him from being injured, but a few of the whiskers on the side of his cheek sizzle a bit from the near fire, adding beard to the list of numerous burnt smells in the air.

"All over the ship, captain. It's going to be weeks before she's fully restored," he mutters, rubbing the black hairs of his cheek in hopes of soothing their injuries as he rises to greet the others. "Sorry, I thought that I'd see if I could get something done while I was waiting," he confesses.

"No need to apologize. Where's Dr. Al-Busaid?"

Shaking his solid head, the engineer answers, "Sickbay's flooded with casualties." Before finishing, he hunches down just enough to retrieve a PADD from the ground near where he'd been working for the captain's inspection. "She asked me to give you this and see if you can have any better luck getting support from the starbase."

Taking the offered device, Charel briefly scans the information presented to him, information he'd hoped to delay receiving until after he managed to get some sleep. The list of casualties running through his mind will surely make falling asleep much more difficult now. Starfleet will probably have plenty of other things for him to do before he can lie down to rest anyway, things which will hopefully distract him from the number of officers under his command who didn't see the end of the war they fought so valiantly.

"It's not a pleasant sight, I know," Sviatoslavov says quietly, casting his eyes down onto the damage of the deck plates to avoid seeing the sorrow on the counselor's face. The casualty reports will be especially difficult for her to see. Changing the subject, the engineer explains, "There's also an inventory of medical supplies missing, used up, and the like she's hoping you can give to the admiral."

With a sigh, the captain lowers the display to his side. "I'll see what I can do. Is the airlock functional?"

"It is now," Sviatoslavov mutters, casting an angry stare at the display panel which robbed some of the fullness from his beard.

"Let's not keep the admiral waiting then," Charel decides, offering his open palm as an invitation for the engineer to lead the way down the unusually dark corridor to the airlock in the neighboring passageway.

"May I see the list?" Vanarrah asks quietly, offering her palm out to the captain. She doesn't need her telepathic abilities to know the answer she seeks from the device, but seeing it will quell all doubts. Telepathy isn't perfected, it can be blocked or simply masked, but the doctor's report doesn't suffer from the same limitations.

The group stops in the hallway, turning their gaze to their colleague and friend. Such a blow as she is about to receive can't help but draw sympathy from her shipmates, the people whose pain her kindness has helped to ease. Now to have to inflict such pain on her, to put to words the unspoken loss they all know of already, only adds insult to injury. But, of course, loss is inevitable.

"Are you sure, Tatyana?" Charel asks, keeping his voice low as he meets the gleam calling forth the tragic news from him. "We still need to meet with Admiral Merrinack."

Nodding her head, displacing the waves of red hair resting over her shoulders, she answers, "I need to know, Marcus. Please."

Without a word more, the captain hands over the device for her inspection. Anticipating what is about to come, Lt. Cmdr. Hawk steps in towards her, knowing that she will almost certainly need support. The other two can only watch helplessly as the display yields up its somber secrets to her pensive eyes.

Reading through the list, she comes to the name she had expected to find:

Lt. Cmdr. Derrick Vanarrah – Deceased

Gasping for breath as the tears begin to come from her eyes, the widow nearly collapses as her hand clasps over her ruby lips. Fortunately for her, Hawk manages to catch her arms and hold up her frail form as the news of her husband's death truly sinks in. She might have expected it, but nothing could have prepared her for actually receiving the news. Nothing could have prevented the anguish at learning such tragic news, and none of her friends can take the grief away for her.

Held up by the tactical officer's powerful arms, she allows her body to devote its energy to the tears coming forth from her normally shining emeralds. Off in the corridor, several repair workers hear the sobs echoing down to them, knowing that someone else just lost a loved one. Plenty of anguished cries have filled these hallways far too often, and no doubt more will flow freely once the revised casualty reports from the war's devastating final battle arrive. The fighting may have ended, but the tragedy still haunts so many of them.

"Maybe you should go to Sickbay, or your quarters," Marcus suggests, placing his hand comfortingly on the grieving widow's shoulder.

"No," she sniffs, forcing her breaths to try to regain a normal rhythm. Despite the tears, despite the anguish, she is still one of the few remaining senior officers. Mourning will have to wait.

"No one will blame you for taking some time," Sviatoslavov offers.

Placing both hands on her face to wipe away the rivers flowing down her cheeks, Counselor Vanarrah focuses her mind on controlling her breathing. Each gasp she forces herself to hold for just a moment, each a touch longer than the last, until the gasps take the shape of actual breaths. With her breathing at last approaching something of normalcy, she addresses the group, "Thank you, but I have to. Derrick wouldn't want me to-"

_Tatyana, it's alright if you need to take some time to yourself,_ Charel tells her telepathically, sparing her the use of her voice so that she can continue to regulate each breath.

_I need to do this, Marcus,_ she responds. _For Derrick's sake, I want Starfleet to know what's happened._

_But you're-_

_Exactly what they need to see._

Regaining her composure, the counselor wipes away more tears snaking their way down from her eyes as she pulls back to her own two feet. "Thank you, Robert," she tells the tactical officer genuinely, squeezing his hand gently to let him know that she's able to stand on her own again. "Isn't Starfleet waiting?" she finishes, convincing her friends to stop staring at her with such agonizing sympathy.

"I believe so," the captain answers, turning to face the engineer. "You said the airlock is functioning?"

"Yes, of course," Sviatoslavov answers, jumping to alert. Another loss, another friend to mourn now that the fighting has finally ended, but work still must be done. Grieve for the dead later, after the living have been salvaged and the appropriate paperwork filed.

The quartet makes its way to the airlock without any further words spoken, nothing seeming quite appropriate under the circumstances. Talking of ship matters, or perhaps some well-earned vacation, seems too trivial to be respectful of the dead, but the dead are exactly what they want to avoid thinking about. Instead, they each simply rehearse what they intend to tell Starfleet in their reports from the frontline, dreading rehashing the injuries even more than trying to heal them.

At the round portal, Lt. Cmdr. Sviatoslavov checks a small panel against the wall before reporting, "Admiral Merrinack is already waiting for us."

Before responding, Capt. Charel permits himself a deep inhalation while centering himself in front of the door. To his right, Counselor Vanarrah—her eyes red and swollen from rubbing at the tears—attempts to look as professional as she can given the circumstances while Lt. Cmdr. Hawk stands to his left at full attention. Starfleet's finest, or at least what's left of them.

"By all means, commander," the captain orders.

At the press of the panel, the rounded door slides away into the wall, allowing access to the hollow tube connecting the wounded bird to port. Waiting patiently inside the lifeline is the familiar, smiling face of Admiral Merrinack attended by several workers. Having a friendly face to report to eases the burden of the news somewhat, but nothing can change the number of lives lost.

"I was starting to wonder if we should try connecting to one of your new airlocks," the admiral greets the returning war heroes. One look at the four faces not amused by the attempt at humor and he realizes that the somber crew won't be so easily consoled. Jokes at wounds still so new can't lighten the mood. They need compassion, perhaps some support, not a casual attitude.

"You have no idea how relieved we were to see you," he says, changing the tone of his voice to a seriousness more appropriate as the officers approach. The closer they come, the easier it is for the ranking elder to notice the pain in each expression, especially that of the highly respected counselor. More loss.

"Permission to come aboard, sir," Capt. Charel states, stopping his approach only a meter in front of his former mentor.

"Absolutely. The entire Federation owes you people a debt of gratitude," he tells them as he extends his wrinkling hand out to the captain. In public, he has to remain as professional as possible, though given the circumstances doing so proves somewhat difficult. The anguish in the younger man's expression, the half-hearted return of the handshake, only makes remaining professional more problematic. "Yours is the first ship to return. Needless to say, Starfleet Command is eager for your reports."

With uncanny precision and fierceness, the counselor demands, "Are they coming here, sir?"

The anger behind her words catches the admiral somewhat off-guard. Never before had he heard her speak with such implied viciousness. Of course, her swollen eyes and streaked face tell him enough, yet still she performs her duty. "No, I'm afraid not," he answers. "I doubt the fleet will be coming out of hiding any time soon, but Cmdr. Livek is preparing a transmission for them in the briefing room."

"With your permission, sir, I'd like to assist him," she states.

Furrowing his brow, causing the splotches of grey in them to puff themselves out proudly for all to see, he asks, "Counselor, is there something-"

"Derrick's dead," she blurts out, not bothering to soften the blow with any preambling. "With your permission, admiral," she repeats, more telling him than asking.

"Of course," he replies with a nod. "Captain, I'd like to get your preliminary report anyway." Gesturing to the two officers behind him, he explains, "Cmdr. Hindrich and Lt. Ordon can see to your ship's repairs and resupply."

"I'll coordinate our repair efforts from the bridge," Lt. Cmdr. Hawk suggests, bowing his head slightly to the two ranking officers. Even bowing, he's still taller than everyone else assembled.

"Very good," Charel confirms. "Mr. Sviatoslavov, show the officers to Main Engineering."

"Aye, sir," the larger man acknowledges, taking charge and leading the admiral's attaches into the confines of the damaged ship. "It's good to see you again, admiral," he offers before parting ways.

"Not half as good as it is to actually see you all back safely," Merrinack replies.

Normally, she would never waste so much time walking through the bowels of a starship. Moving slowly from point to point instead of being instantaneously transported delays her work, but in this case she has no choice but to rely on the bumpy turbolift to get her to the bridge. Fortunately, she had familiarized herself with the ship's specifications while awaiting its return at the starbase, even though it seemed a bit overly optimistic at the time. The fact that the _Phoenix_ managed to return home—even in such sorry shape—is a testament to the skills of the crew. If they can survive the final assault into fluidic space, they can certainly get the internal transport network back up and running, the first order she intends to give her engineering staff.

Once the car comes to a complete stop, the doors slide apart and freeze two-thirds of the way open. With a glare at the frame, she steps out through the opening to get her first look at the bridge. For such a small, almost strictly combat vessel, the bridge immediately strikes her as being quite large. She'd been expecting something more compact, a few consoles clustered around a central command chair or two, but each station gives its neighbor a respectable distance.

Predictably, at the center of the ellipse, a crescent moon of display panels wraps around the back of three plush chairs with the central seat directly at the center point facing the main viewscreen. Immediately to the left of the captain's chair is another simple, plush chair no doubt for the ship's counselor or visiting specialists. In front and off to the right of the command chair at the tip of the crescent sits the final of the three command chairs with three consoles encircling it, no doubt the first officer's station. Once the debris has been cleaned up and the taste of smoke taken from the air, the bridge will meet with her approval.

Silently, she scans her eyes across the officers scurrying about the room. None of them seem to pay any heed to her arrival, busily working to bring the ship back up to par as they should. Each individual officer seems to have his or her own assignment, though they each chatter back and forth as they work. Fortunately for them, all the bits she overhears are work related.

Her eyes land on an imposing man hunched over the young female Romulan at conn. From the pips visible on his collar, he must be the highest ranking officer, and the parallel stripes of red running up his sleeves then back down his chest signify command, just as her own uniform. The personnel records she reviewed tells her this man is probably Lt. Cmdr. Hawk, currently filling in as first officer while still retaining his primary duty as tactical officer. Odd that Charel wouldn't be overseeing the repairs of his bridge.

As she watches silently from behind the command arch, Lt. Cmdr. Hawk finishes his conversation with the helmswoman and heads back to the captain's chair. Instead of sitting down, he checks one of the panels on the armrest before noticing her intent stare. "Can I help you?" he asks, more of a command than a question.

Proudly, she strolls around the command arch to more directly address him. He has a couple of centimeters on her, but her commanding presence more than makes up for them. "Where is Commander Charel?" she requests.

"_Captain_ Charel," he corrects, making sure that she takes note of the correction, "is currently being debriefed by Admiral Merrinack."

"I see," she responds, ignoring the point he attempts to make. "Tell him to meet me in main engineering when he returns. In the meantime, I want a full ship's status report—damage, casualties, weapon storage, power levels, everything—in one hour."

Her collar only displays three pips, not the four needed for captain's rank and beyond, yet she certainly behaves as though her rank were substantially higher. After studying to be sure there are in fact only three rank insignias, Hawk decides to ask her, "And you are?"

"Captain Mercedes del Bosque Valverde, but you may address me as Capt. Valverde or sir. Now, carry out my orders, _Lt._ Cmdr."

Glaring at her, he answers simply, "Yes, sir." Even at only the rank of commander, she outranks him. The captain will have to deal with her.

"Good. I'll be in main engineering," she announces. Turning, she heads back across the ship's nerve center to the turbolift she came from. As she strides along, she adds, "And get the internal transporters back online. We can't very well repair this ship if we can't move within it."

Not until the turbolift doors have shut behind the new officer, taking her out of the sanctuary of the bridge, does Ensign D'drel dare to voice the question on all the officers' minds. Sitting half-turned at the conn, she looks to her superior officer. "What was that about?"

Lt. Cmdr. Hawk continues to stare menacingly at the turbolift doors, daring them to open and return that woman to his bridge. He could order the turbolifts shut down for maintenance. "I have no idea," he finally mutters, realizing how many eyes are on him rather than attending to the business of restoring the ship. His continual staring doesn't help in getting them back to work. "Are repairs completed already?" he asks, scanning his eyes about the work crews, prompting them to return immediately to their tasks.

The unpleasantness of Captain Valverde's visit manages to ease Lt. Keel's work a bit. Normally, the information he's been gathering wouldn't be particularly well received, but at this point the ranking officer will almost certainly welcome the change of subjects. "Commander," he calls out from his station, "I think you should look at this."

Tossing his head aside, Hawk removes the woman temporarily from his thoughts. Judging by the tone of his voice, whatever the lieutenant has for him to see will probably take precedent over the orders she gave him, ample excuse to ignore them. "What is it?" he asks, taking up position from the vantage point over the officer's shoulder.

"Neptune reports that several key structures, including the planetary power relay, have taken damage from the detonation of the Genesis Torpedo. The planet's atmosphere also seems to be ionizing, and may require evacuation if the levels continue to increase."

Scowling as he skims the transmission copy displayed on the communication's console, Hawk asks, "Why would the atmosphere be ionizing?"

"I have no idea, sir, possibly the aftereffects of the torpedo," the officer confesses, shaking his head to emphasize his point, "but until any other ships return from fluidic space, we're essentially Starfleet's _only_ operational vessel. If the planet does need to be evacuated…"

Exhaling loudly, Hawk straightens back up to his full height, crossing his thick arms across his broad chest. "We're not equipped for a planetary evacuation, even at optimum capacity. Keep an eye on the situation, and have Lt. Derbin begin investigating the problem as well. Marcus is not going to like our next conversation."


End file.
